The Coffee Trader

24

In the deceptive shadows of twilight, a figure crept up behind him but slipped back into the dusk before Miguel could spin around to face it. An indeterminate shape lurked behind a tree just out of his vision. Something splashed into the canal a few paces behind his hurried steps. Each street brought Miguel closer to some deadly confrontation with Joachim. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a madman’s foul grin, the glimmer of a knife blade, a pair of lunging hands.

Miguel was no stranger to death. In Lisbon he had lived in terror of the arbitrary power of the Inquisition and of the bands of bloodthirsty villains that had roamed the streets almost with impunity. In recent years, Amsterdam had been subject to horrible visitations of plague: men and women turned purplish-black in the face, developed rashes, and died within days. Thanks to the Holy One, blessed be He, people now smoked so much tobacco, for it alone prevented the spread of that disease. Still, death lurked everywhere. Miguel knew as well as anyone how to live with its random assaults on the living; he did not know how to live while being hunted.

And so Joachim began to win his war upon his enemy’s quiet. Miguel found his concentration wandering, even upon the Exchange. He watched helplessly as Parido made his way through the crowds of merchants, buying coffee futures, betting that the price would continue to rise.

If something should happen to make Miguel unable to control the price of the coffee, he would lose money on his puts, and then Daniel would learn that Miguel had abused his name and his funds. What if Nunes refused to deliver the goods until Miguel paid his debts? It all struck him as futile, when he might be dead at any moment of an assassin’s blade.

Miguel knew he could not live with that possibility. Even if Joachim never intended to draw blood, he had already done great harm. No one could doubt Miguel’s need to put an end to it. He needed to live his life without fear of some madman stalking him.

It took him a few more days to determine how to proceed, but once he had his idea firmly in mind it seemed to him both sordid and clever. It would involve some unpleasantness, but he could not expect to deal with a person like Joachim without confronting the unsavory. Certainly that had been his problem all along. He had tried to engage with Joachim as though he were a sound man, as though he might be convinced by reason, but time and time again Joachim had shown himself unable or unwilling to act as a man of sense. He recalled a tale of Charming Pieter in which a ruffian sought revenge against the trickster. Outmatched by an enemy’s physical prowess, Pieter had hired an even more dangerous ruffian to protect himself.

At the Singing Carp they told him Geertruid had not been seen in half a week, and that meant she might be gone for a few days more. Often Hendrick would go with her, but not always, and Miguel had no need to wait for her return. In fact, he thought, this might be the better way. Why should Geertruid know all his business?

He spent the better part of the day scouring the taverns where he might expect to see Hendrick, but it was not until late afternoon that he found his man, sitting at a table with a few of his rough friends, smoking a long pipe that smelled like a mixture of old tobacco and dung. Hendrick had mentioned the tavern in passing before, but Miguel had never imagined that anything would lead him to enter such a place. He could taste in his mouth the scent of rotten wood from the tables; the flood had been covered with filthy straw. In the back, a crowd of men made a game of watching two rats fight each other.

Seeing Miguel, Hendrick let out a barking laugh and then whispered something to his friends, who joined in the cackling. “Why, speak of the devil, it is the very Jew Man. ” Hendrick puffed furiously at his pipe, as though the clouds of smoke might engulf Miguel.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Miguel said. “I need to talk with you for a moment.”

“Drink up, boys,” Hendrick shouted to his companions. “I must take my leave for a time. I have a meeting of importance, as you can see.”

Outside the tavern, the dead-fish smell of the canal coated Miguel’s throat. The summer heat had begun to settle upon the city, and the stink with it. He breathed in deep through his mouth and led Hendrick toward the alley, which had a slightly more pleasant odor of soil and old beer. A distressed cat with filthy white fur and a mangled ear opened its pink mouth and hissed at them, but Hendrick hissed back, and the cat fled into the shadows.

“My lady has gone away for the nonce, and I am used to it being that where there is no Madam Damhuis, there is no senhor either.”

“Has she gone to her lawyer in Antwerp again?”

“So you’ve come in search of her after all?” He punched Miguel congenially in the arm.

“I’ve not come for her.” Miguel offered a knowing look of his own. “But I’m curious.”

“Ha!” Hendrick barked. “You’ve kept that curiosity in check, haven’t you, good Jew Man? She’s a lady with many secrets: from you, from me, from the world. Some say she’s as ordinary as buttered bread, but she keeps secrets to seem otherwise.”

“But you know the truth?”

He nodded. “I know the truth.”

Miguel had so many questions about his partner that he had thought to never have answered. Now Hendrick hinted he might learn them all. But could he trust the Dutchman not to talk of Miguel’s questioning? The man liked to drink, and his tongue was known to wag. This conversation was proof enough.

“Tell me only what the lady herself would tell me,” Miguel said at last. “I’ll not pry into any secrets she wishes to keep.”

Hendrick nodded. “You are a cautious man, aren’t you? I respect that. You like the lady and won’t have her not liking you. And I think you’d like her all the same if you knew the truth-which is, at best, a dull sort of truth-for she might just as easily tell the world where she goes when she goes. A visit to her lawyer or his sister or her brother’s widow need not be a great secret.”

“I’ve not asked to be told all this.”

“But I’ve chosen to tell you,” Hendrick said, the levity draining from his voice, “because I love Madam Damhuis with all my heart, but she can be cruel. She likes to torment men. She loves to drive them mad with desire and then send them on their way. And she likes to drive them mad with curiosity too. She keeps the most trivial details secret, and all whisper her name.”

“It’s no crime,” Miguel volunteered, feeling the need to defend her.

Hendrick nodded. “Jew Man, if you said otherwise, I’d slit your throat. No one would insult that lady while I stand by, for I owe her my life and more. But I tell you these things because I know you love her, and you would not love her less for the knowing.”

Miguel held out his hand in the Dutch style. “I thank you for your trust.”

Hendrick grinned and shook firmly. “There’s been too long an uneasiness between us. I want only to see it end. You and madam are friends, and I would be your friend too.”

Miguel could not but rejoice at his good luck. “I am glad to hear you say this, for I’ve come to you with a most delicate problem, and I had hoped you would be able to assist me.”

“You need but name it.”

Miguel took a deep breath. “I’ve been bothered by a madman. This fellow believes I owe him money, which is not the case, for we both suffered in the same transaction, which was managed both fairly and legally. Now he follows me and has begun to threaten my life. I’ve been unable to deter him with reason, and I can’t go to the law, because he has not done me or my property any real harm.”

“I shit on the law. The law won’t help you,” Hendrick said, still puffing merrily. “Once he slices you open, then you may seek your redress with the law. What good is that? You need but tell me his name, and I’ll see to it that he never does another man harm again.”

“I have seen that you are a man who knows something of how to defend himself,” Miguel explained with some difficulty; it pained him to offer Hendrick even this brutal flattery. “I recall how well you reacted in the tavern.”

“Make no excuses, my friend. I understand that you cannot risk yourself by engaging in a scrape with a low fellow. Were you Jews not watched, I know a man such as you are could tend to this matter without help. Now, you need only tell me who he is.”

“His name is Joachim Waagenaar, and he lives by the Oude Kerk.”

“If he lives by the Oude Kerk, I suppose any number of accidents might befall a fellow in that part of town without the world taking notice. Of course, good feelings between us being what they are, such things cost money. Fifty guilders should do nicely.”

Miguel blinked several times, as though this price had poked him in his eye. Just what did he hope Hendrick might do? Joachim was a madman, so why did Miguel feel so uneasy about this transaction? “That’s rather more than I thought.”

“We may be friends enough now, but I still take a risk, you understand.”

“Of course, of course,” Miguel said. “I did not say I absolutely would not pay it. Only that it was more than I thought.”

“Think as much as you like. When you’ve made up your mind, come see me.”

“I will do so. And in the meantime-”

Hendrick grinned. “Of course I’ll say nothing to the lady. I understand you well enough, and now that we have each other’s secrets, you need not wonder if you can trust me or no.”

Miguel took his hand once more. “I offer you my thanks. Knowing that I may depend upon you has put my mind at ease.”

“I’m happy to serve you.” He blew out a cloud of smoke and returned to the tavern.

A light mist had begun to fall; it was just the sort of weather for a villain who might hide himself in fog and dark. The rain mixed with his perspiration, making him feel heavy and encumbered in his clothing. Nevertheless, having spoken to Hendrick made him more comfortable already. He had options; he could concoct a strategy of his own. Joachim had not outmatched him.

Perhaps, he considered, it was not necessary to have Hendrick give Joachim a thorough beating. Now that he had almost commissioned the job, he winced at its brutality. If there was a way to avoid it, it would be best avoided. After all, he had not sought out Hendrick to harm Joachim but to make himself feel safer, and the simple act of having discussed the option of the beating rid him of many concerns. He might see that Joachim came to harm at any time he wished; having that power, the righteous thing would be to spare the creature. Mercy, after all, was one of the seven highest qualities of the Holy One, blessed be He. Miguel, too, could aim to be merciful.

He would wait. Joachim surely never meant to actually kill Miguel, but should he again make these threats, he would learn that Miguel understood justice as well as mercy.

Before he reached the Vlooyenburg, the mist had turned to rain.

Miguel wanted nothing so much as to change his clothes and sit before a fire, and perhaps read a little Torah-all this contemplation of mercy left him longing to feel closer to the holiness of the Most High. First he might review the story of how Charming Pieter had tricked the greedy horse trader, a tale always certain to cheer him.

Once inside, he removed his shoes, after the Dutch fashion, so as to avoid tracking mud through the house, though his stockings had soaked through, and he left wet footprints upon the tiled floor. He had only gone a little way toward the entrance to the cellar when he saw Hannah hovering in the doorway, the shadows accentuating the swelling of her belly.

“Good afternoon, senhora,” he said, too hastily. There could no longer be any doubt of her intentions. Her eyes, wide and moist under her black scarf, fixed on him greedily.

“I must speak with you,” she said, in a quiet voice.

He replied without thinking. “You wish another taste of my drink?”

She shook her head. “Not now. I must say something else.”

“May we go to the drawing room?” he asked.

She shook her head again. “No, we mustn’t. I can’t have my husband finding us there together. He will suspect.”

He will suspect what? Miguel almost blurted out. Did she believe them already lovers? Had she so lively an imagination that it did not end with women scholars? Miguel too had indulged in the delicious crime of flirtation, but he did not believe he could take it to the next stage, that of secret meetings, of hiding from her husband, of reveling in one of the worst of sins. No one cherished the delights of a fanciful mind more than Miguel, but a man-a person-must know where fancy ends and truth begins. He might hold Hannah in a new esteem, find her winsome as well as pretty. He might even love her for all he knew, but he would not act on those feelings.

“We must speak here,” she said, “but quietly. We cannot be overheard.”

“Perhaps you’ve made a mistake,” Miguel offered, “and we needn’t speak quietly at all.”

Hannah offered a smile, slight and sweet, as though she were humoring him, as though he were too simple to understand her words. May the Holy One, blessed be He, forgive me for unleashing coffee upon mankind, he thought. This drink will turn the world upside down.

“I am not mistaken, senhor. I have something to tell you. Something that concerns you very nearly.” She took a deep breath. “It is about your friend, senhor. The widow.”

Miguel felt a sudden dizziness. He leaned against the wall. “Geertruid Damhuis,” he breathed. “What of her? What could you have to tell me of her?”

Hannah shook her head. “I don’t know precisely. Oh, forgive me, senhor, for I hardly even know how to say what I wish to say, and I fear to do so will put my very life in your hands, but I also fear your betrayal if I do not speak.”

“Betrayal? What do you say?”

“Please, senhor. I am trying. Not very long ago, only a few weeks really, I saw the Dutch widow on the street, and she saw me. We both had something to hide. I don’t know what she had to hide, but she seemed to think I did, and she threatened me to keep silent. I thought it could do no harm, but now I am not so certain.”

Miguel took a step backwards. Geertruid. What could she have to hide, and what did it mean to him? It could be anything: a lover, a deal, an embarrassment. Or it could be a matter of business. It made no sense. “What did you have to hide, senhora?”

She shook her head. “I wish I didn’t have to tell you, but I have made up my mind to do so. I know I can trust you, senhor, and if you must confront her, and you make it clear you already know my secret, perhaps she won’t tell others, and the worst may be spared. Can I tell you and trust that you will tell no one else?”

“Of course,” Miguel said hastily, though he wished desperately that he could somehow avoid this entire conversation.

“I am ashamed,” she said, “and yet not ashamed to tell you this, but I saw the widow on my way from a sacred place. A church of Catholic worship, senhor.”

Miguel stared at her with unfocused eyes until she blended into the dark wall. He hardly knew what to think. His own brother’s wife, a woman for whom he had cared and felt desire, had revealed herself a secret Catholic.

“You have betrayed your husband?” he asked quietly.

She swallowed hard. The tears had not yet come, but they would come soon. They filled the air like a coming rain. “How can you speak of betrayal? I was never told until the eve of my wedding that I was a Jew. Have I not been betrayed?”

“You betrayed?” Miguel demanded, once again forgetting to keep his voice quiet. “How can you say so? You live in the new Jerusalem.”

“Have you or your brother or the rabbis spoken to me of what is in your Torah or Talmud other than to tell me what I must do to serve you? When I go to your synagogue, the prayers are in Hebrew and the talk is in Spanish, yet I may not learn these tongues. If I have a daughter, must I raise her to serve an arbitrary God who will not even show His face only because she is a girl? It is well for you to talk of betrayal when the world hands you all you desire. I am offered nothing, and if I wish to take for myself some comfort, am I to be condemned?”

“Yes,” Miguel said, though he did not believe it and instantly regretted having said so. But he was angry. He could not have said why, but he felt wounded, as though she had violated some trust between them.

He had not seen the tears start, but there they were, glistening upon her face. He fought the urge to pull her to his body, to feel her breasts against his chest, but he couldn’t, so instead he pressed on. “I have nothing more to say to you. Now leave me so I may think on what to do with this knowledge that I wish I had never heard.”

The cruelty of his words stuck in his throat; he knew what they would mean to her. She would wonder if Miguel might keep quiet. He now knew his brother’s wife was a papist, and that information could destroy Daniel. Miguel might reveal this information to usurp his brother’s place in the community, or he could use it to threaten Daniel into forgiving his debts.

Miguel would do none of these things. No matter how repulsive her sin, he would not betray Hannah. Even so, he felt such sudden rage that he had to punish her, and his words were the only way he knew how.

“I heard voices. Is something wrong?”

Daniel appeared at the doorway of the kitchen, looking pale. His little eyes focused on his wife, standing far too close to a retreating Miguel.

“It is only your silly brother,” Hannah said, hiding her face in the poor light. “I saw him come in wearing these wet clothes, but he refuses to change out of them.”

“It is not for a woman to decide if a man is silly,” Daniel pointed out, not unkindly. He merely illuminated information she may have forgotten. “Nevertheless,” he said to Miguel, “she may be right. I won’t have you catch plague and kill us all.”

“The entire household has an opinion on my clothes.” Miguel affected as best he could an easy manner. “I’ll go change at once before the maid is summoned to speak her piece.”

Hannah took a hurried step back, and Miguel turned instinctively toward the stairwell. Daniel had seen nothing; Miguel could be almost certain of that. What, after all, had there been for him to see? Yet he must know the full vocabulary of his wife’s expressions, and surely he had seen one upon her face that could not be a simple matter of housewifely advice.

His confusion about Hannah’s Romish inclinations was so intense that he did not even consider what she had said about Geertruid for several hours. Once he recalled her words, however, he found himself awake much of the night, regretting his cruelty and wishing there were a way to go to Hannah and ask her questions. And perhaps apologize.

Hannah was first out of the house the next morning, stepping onto the stoop to look for the bread man, whose cries she heard through windows hazy with morning cool. Before her husband had opened his eyes, before Annetje had even washed and begun to prepare breakfast for the house, Hannah had dressed herself, put her veil firmly in place, and stepped outside.

She found the pig’s head. It sat upon the stoop just inches from the door, angled in a congealed pool of blood. Already ants had begun to crawl upon it in such numbers that at first it appeared to Hannah black and writhing.

Her shriek roused the house and the closest neighbors. Miguel had slept badly and had already risen, prayed, and dressed. He sat struggling with the weekly Torah portion when her shrill voice penetrated the tiny windows of the cellar, and he was the first to find Hannah upon the steps, a hand clasped over her mouth. She turned to him and fell into his arms, burying her head in his shirt as she wept.

They called immediately for the doctor, who gave her potions to help her sleep and explained that if she could be kept calm for a day, the danger to her life would pass. Hannah had insisted that she needed no potions, she had been only startled, but the doctor would not believe a woman could receive so great a shock without its disordering her humors and, more important, he explained, the humors of the unborn baby. Daniel shot Miguel hard looks but said nothing, made no accusations. Nevertheless, Miguel could no longer ignore the simple truth that things between himself and his brother would never be the same.

from

The Factual and Revealing Memoirs of Alonzo Alferonda

I returned home one night from evening prayers (yes, evening prayers-there were still, thank God, a few small synagogues that defied the Ma’amad and permitted me to worship among their number so long as I was careful not to be seen), when I felt a hand grip my shoulder. I looked up expecting to see some desperate debtor who, fearing for his life, thought to strike at Alferonda before he could be struck. Instead, I saw Solomon Parido.

“Senhor,” I said, swallowing my relief, “I hardly thought to receive another visit from you again so soon.”

Parido appeared hesitant. He no more liked coming to see me than I liked seeing him. Perhaps he liked it less. I had nothing to lose from these encounters, but he had his pride. “I had not thought to seek you out.”

“And yet,” I observed, “here you are, lurking in the streets, waiting for me.” I had cause to be anxious that he knew I had been at worship, but he said nothing, and I could only conclude that he would not have failed to play so valuable a card. My friends at the small synagogue were safe.

Parido set his jaw as though bracing himself and turned to me. “I want to know more of what you have planned with Miguel Lienzo.”

I picked up my pace, if only a little. It was a trick I learned so long ago I hardly even notice doing it most times. Varying your pace of walking sets your companion on edge. He has to think more about trivial things than he ought, and that takes his concentration from where it needs to be. “I marvel at your presumption,” I said. “What makes you think, if I had anything planned, I would tell my enemy?”

“I may be your enemy, as you style it, but Lienzo is not. You are manipulating him.”

I let out a laugh. “If you think so, why not tell him?”

“Things have gone too far now; he’d never believe me. I’ve asked his brother to warn him off you, but I doubt that will do much good.”

“I doubt it too. A better strategy might have been to have his brother encourage him to do business with me.” I winked at him. “I heard someone left the head of a pig on his brother’s doorstep. I wonder if you, senhor, might know who would do such a thing.”

“How dare you accuse me of so wretched a crime? Listen to me, Alferonda. If you bear any friendship for Lienzo, you’ll stop this. If he crosses me, I’ll destroy him.”

I shook my head. “You think you can destroy anyone you like. You think you can work miracles of destruction. Your power as parnass has corrupted you utterly, Parido, and you cannot even see it. You’ve become a distortion of the man you once were. You threaten me, you threaten Lienzo-you see plots everywhere. I pity you. You can no longer tell what is true and what is your own fancy.”

He stared at me for a moment, and I could tell by his face that I had struck something. This was the oldest trick of them all, but I knew it well. I had practiced it often. The appearance of sincerity can truly unman even the most stalwart foe.

“Think,” I said, eager to press the advantage, “of what you have accused me, of what you have accused Miguel. Do you really think it plausible that men engage themselves in these wild plots? Is it not far more likely that your suspicion and greed have misled you not only to suspect things that are untrue but to do real harm to others?”

“I see I’ve wasted my time,” he said, and turned away.

I was not one, however, to let the fish go, once hooked. “You haven’t wasted your time,” I called after him, “if you will only think of what I have said. You are wrong, Parido. You are wrong about me and wrong about Lienzo, and it is not too late for you to atone for your sins.”

He began to walk faster and hunched his shoulders as if to protect himself from whatever I might hurl at him. And I did hurl: I hurled lies, powerful lies that fell like stones because they so clearly resembled the truth.

In the same way you can make a simple peasant who has given you his last coin think that a mere lout with too much hair on his back is a werewolf. He fears it may be a werewolf, so all you need do is point and whisper a suggestion, and the peasant will hear the howling for himself.